


A Funny Valentine's Day

by AlleiraDayne



Series: Bang Your Head (Metal Health) [14]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, F/M, Fluff, Fluffy, Food, Modern Era, Modern Thedas, Steamy, Valentine's Day, Valentine's Day Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-18
Updated: 2016-02-18
Packaged: 2018-05-21 09:22:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6046366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlleiraDayne/pseuds/AlleiraDayne





	A Funny Valentine's Day

Never had he seen a bigger mess. Well, there was that one time Mia had attempted to make pumpkin pie from actual pumpkin. But Cullen’s kitchen wasn’t covered in pumpkin seeds and orange fibers from freshly gutted pumpkins like his parent’s kitchen had been that Harvest dinner so many years ago. No, this time, he had decided to outdo Mia’s pumpkin pie, and for what? A silly, made-up holiday about love and romance and buying more shit for your significant other a mere month and a half after Christmas? He vowed that it would be the last time he _ever_ did _anything_ on Valentine’s day for the rest of their lives.

Cooking was one thing. And then there was baking. Completely different story. Cullen took pride in his ability to follow orders – or directions in his current situation – to perfection. Upon his first read through of the recipe, everything seemed straight forward, especially the limited list of ingredients. And then he realized he’d have to use egg _whites_ separately, and then he had to go back to the store that morning to buy ingredients for sponge cake because instead of just buying a freshly made sponge cake at the bakery, he insisted on making that from scratch as well. Molding and refreezing ice cream on top of the sponge cake had doubled his production time, he’d failed to properly whip the egg whites _twice_ , and by the time he was finished, he thanked the Maker for his forethought on asking Amallia to be in charge of their main course.

As if on cue, Amallia burst through his apartment door, lilting voice calling out to him. Cullen froze, the island counter covered from end to end in flour and egg and sugar, and before he could even attempt to wipe it clean, his girlfriend rounded the corner.

“I hope you’re hungry, I think I got way too much beef—Andraste’s flaming knickers, what in the Void did you _do?!_ ”

Mouth agape, she came to a halt as her eyes landed on the counter, then flicked up to take him in, up to his elbows and apron covered in flour. “I ah,” he stuttered, unsure of how to explain. “I was … going to surprise you with dessert. But, it turns out, I don’t exactly know how to bake. At all.”

Slow, sharp steps marked her strides into the kitchen, stiletto heels clicking on the dark wood floor. The cook book still open at the far corner of the counter had managed to survive the ordeal untouched. She set the bag of groceries on the floor next to the counter and removed her coat, draping it over an arm as she flipped back a page in the book, finding the start of the recipe. As she leaned, the top of her pink, unbuttoned shirt gaped, drawing Cullen’s gaze. From the subtly revealed flesh, he followed the curve of her body down along her black skirt, the curve of her backside, and down the length of her black stockinged legs to her heeled feet. Teeth rasped over his bottom lip and he fought back the urge to take her there, to bend her over the counter and have his way with her.

Her incredulous chuckle drew his attention back to her face where he found her brow quirked towards her hairline, attention still wrapped in the cook book.

“I suppose I should have done something a bit simpler for dessert,” he said with a sigh.

She turned to him, a grin hooking her lips, and without warning, she was in his arms pressing close and Cullen grabbed the counter to steady himself. Her hands had delved into his hair at the back of his head to pull him in for a deep, firm kiss. He tried to back away from her, keep from getting her clothes covered in flour but he could hardly resist her, alluring feminine scent, lush soft, lips on his, and Maker, the taste of her tongue as it brushed past his was the perfect excuse to wrap his arms around her.

She pulled from him, lips yet parted as a warm, breathless sigh passed between them to meet his own. The rise and fall of her breasts against his chest, the flutter of her lashes as she blinked away the heady rush, and the rasp of her fingertips at the nape of his neck all had him wanting more, to give up on the ridiculous pretenses of a ridiculous holiday and haul her to the bedroom.

But Amallia backed away, far better at reining herself in, and fetched the bag of groceries from the floor. “Why don’t you get cleaned up and I’ll get dinner started. It’ll be a few hours yet. I’ll take care of … whatever happened in here,” she said with a girlish giggle as she brushed the flour from her coat.

“No, absolutely not, I made the mess, I’m cleaning it up. Besides, it’s my kitchen. And I’m going to help you make dinner,” he demanded as he turned to the sink.

She made no effort to argue, instead emptying the bag into the refrigerator as Cullen washed up. With the apron removed and in the hamper, he double checked his grey slacks, purple shirt, and matching tie in the mirror of his bathroom, ensuring they were clean, then returned to the kitchen and set out to clean the counter.

Within a minute, the kitchen was spotless once more, and Amallia had laid out the ingredients for their main course. Cullen looked at the bowl, the array of seasonings, and the large paper bag. “I hope the bread crumbs came out right.”

She opened the bag, inspecting several pieces before nodding. “Should be fine. Dry and crumbling. Ready to get your hands dirty again?” she asked as she turned for a cupboard and withdrew a large frying pan, setting it on the stove, and filling it with oil.

“Again?” he asked, faking a groan. “I was just going to watch,” he jested with a sly grin.

Her scoff told him she would have none of his smarm that evening. “If I’m going to be doing all of this by myself, we’ll be here all night. It’ll go twice as fast if you help me,” she explained as she took out a large pot and set it beside the pan.

With a quick kiss to her cheek, he said, “I was only teasing, pup. Now, where do we start?”

Amallia directed and Cullen followed, first starting the sauce on the stove, then unwrapping the two packages of ground meats in the bowl, combined with mashed bread crumbs, an egg, and finely grated cheese. A very potent cheese, he noted. It brought to mind a certain friend’s smelly feet. When she began dumping in seasonings without measuring, the memory vanished and Cullen couldn’t contain his curiosity.

“What are you doing?”

“What do you mean?” she asked, clearly confused.

He gestured to the bowl and then to the shaker in her hand. “You’re not even measuring them.”

She shrugged, the issue not apparent to her. “They don’t need to be measured. I just have to see it. And it depends on the amount of meat. For two people, I think I got too much, but this is a much smaller batch than I’m used to making. So I just eyeball it.”

Cullen shook his head, but her confidence assuaged his skepticism. “I’ll leave it to the pro, then. What now?”

“Dig in.”

“What?”

“Like this,” she said as she plunged both hands into the bowl and began mixing.

“Why don’t you use a spoon or something?” Cullen asked.

“Because this is much easier. And you can feel for bread crumbs that are too hard or too large,” she explained. “See,” she held up a large chunk of tough bread. “This could cause the meat to fall apart in the pan. You keep mixing, I’m going to check on the stove,” she directed.

With both hands, Cullen dove in, fingers squeezing and prying at the mixture. Before long, he sucked a short gasp through his gritted teeth, withdrawing a hand to find it red and swollen.

“What’s wrong?” Amallia asked as she finished washing her hands. “Are you okay? Oh, please tell me you’re not allergic to pork.”

“No, this meat is _cold_ ,” he said, sounding mildly surprised as he returned his hand to the bowl and continued to mix.

“Oh, Andraste’s tits, you’re such a baby,” Amallia scoffed as she traipsed off to the living room and Cullen thanked the Maker that she hadn’t seen him mock her.

 A random mix of jazz filtered into the kitchen, and when she returned, she assessed the contents of the bowl.

“That should be good. Now, this is the tricky part. You don’t want them to be too big,” she began as she picked out a chunk of meat. “Larger than a golf ball. But not by much. You don’t want a baseball, that’ll take too long to fry. And it’ll most likely fall apart.”

Nimble fingers molded the meat into a ball, and Cullen stared with rapt attention as she began to roll it between her palms. Those hands, capable of things he couldn’t help but imagine then, things they had only recently begun to explore all over again, rolled the meat with practiced ease.

“Cullen?” she asked as she held her palm out, showing him a perfectly rolled meatball.

He startled, pulled back to reality by her voice, and reached out to take the meat from her hand. “It’s great,” he said as he set it on the sheet of foil on the counter. “Alright, so, not much bigger than a golf ball …”

Cooking together had been an awful idea. Cullen could hardly concentrate. He was certain that out of the fifteen meatballs they had rolled, he had made, at most, five of them. It was obvious that Amallia knew this recipe intimately. And watching her work mesmerized him all over again.

He watched intently as the pan behind him hissed violently when Amallia dropped in the first few meatballs, organizing them neatly as she added more.

“Where did you learn this?” he asked. It was then that he realized she hadn’t referenced a book or her phone once the entire time.

As she stirred the sauce in the large pot next to the pan, she smiled, a short laugh breathed through her nose. “My grandparents showed it to me when I was a little girl. In fact, it was my great-grandmother who used to make the meatballs by hand every holiday. And I mean, _every_ holiday, even if it wasn’t a Tevinter holiday. If a country in Thedas celebrated it, _we_ celebrated it.”

“Tevinter? Your family is from Tevinter?” he asked, immediately regretting the question, but her obnoxious laughter that followed eased his worry.

“Some are. My mother’s side. Great-grandmother and grandmother left the Imperium when my grandmother was very young. They went to the Free Marches,” she explained as she rolled the meatballs over, revealing crispy brown undersides. “And my mother, a full-blooded Tevinter, married a half-Free Marcher, half-Fereldan man. So, I’m actually, a quarter Fereldan.”

 “I _knew_ there was a reason I loved you,” he quipped as he wrapped his arms around her waist from behind.

She laughed again, loud and boisterous as she continued cooking. When she had no witty retort, Cullen spoke again. “Do you miss them?”

“Who?”

“Your family.”

“My family is here,” she said flatly, all mirth fled.

“But that’s just Dorian and Karris. What about your parents?” he asked.

“I speak to them over the phone. We used to see them a few times a year. We’d visit for holidays. But, now, Karris and I decided to just stay in Ferelden. Easier. Less drama. Our family isn’t exactly what you would call loving,” she explained.

“I’m sorry to hear that.” He couldn’t imagine what it must feel like. And when Amallia failed to respond once more, he pulled her closer, nuzzling her neck as she removed the first batch of meatballs from the pan, placing them in a bowl to dry. “I didn’t mean to pry. We’ve not really talked about family much since Harvest. And Christmas was wonderful. But it occurred to me we’ve not done anything with your family, aside from Karris and Dorian.”

Her half-hearted shrug failed to hide the sadness he knew she felt. “Like I said, Dorian and Karris are all the family I need. And now I have you,” she said with a smile as she looked over her shoulder to him. “New family.”

Those soft lips, so close to his, lured him in before he could even think to give her space. And when she didn’t pull back – quite the opposite, she pressed the kiss further, completely turning into him and eyes fluttering closed – Cullen sighed a soft moan into her. The small of her back arched, his hands finding that perfect spot to hold her close, to let her know just how much he loved her, cared for her, absolutely adored her. It pained him to know she had so few people in her life that felt even remotely close to the way he felt about her. He hoped she understood just how important she was to him, pouring every ounce of his love into a simple, tender kiss. Maker, she _had_ to know, after all they’d been through.

She pulled back, breathless once more, and Cullen could see in her eyes the awe of being so thoroughly loved. “You keep that up, Mr. Rutherford, and we’re never going to eat.”

“I couldn’t help myself,” he replied with a coy smirk as he released her and she turned back to continue preparing their dinner.

Two hours later, the kitchen table was set, candles lit and plates laid out across from one another. Cullen seated himself as Amallia brought in the final item, a large steaming bowl of penne covered in a rich red tomato sauce. Next to it sat a smaller bowl holding the mound of meatballs covered in sauce.

Salad lasted all of ten seconds, it seemed, eager to experience the new smells and tastes laid out before him. Cullen set the salad bowl aside, clearing his plate and spooning in a large helping of penne. The sauce had cooked for three hours, two of which were combined with the meatballs after frying.

“Here, before you commit, try a bite of mine,” she suggested as she held up her fork with a large chunk of meat. She held it out to him, a hopeful smile crinkling the corners of her eyes, and Cullen leaned forward to take the bite into his mouth.

 _Red_. It was the only thing he could think of, it tasted so decidedly _red_. Though fried, the meat beneath the browned exterior was fluffy and moist. Sauce and meat combined for a savory, sweet palate, unlike anything he had ever tasted in any restaurant, and much unlike the food with which he was familiar. His eyes closed, a pleased hum of approval rumbling deep in his chest, and he swallowed.

Once settled, his eyes opened and he sighed with content. Her only reply was her lilting laugh as she began to eat.

Hours drifted by, eating, sharing bread, and discussing wine. It wasn’t until Amallia sat back with a hand at her stomach that Cullen noticed the entire bowl of penne was gone and a mere five meatballs were left.

“Maker, did we really eat that much?” he asked.

She groaned in response, regret dripping from the sound. “I don’t want to think about it, my stomach is going to explode.”

He stood then, taking their plates and speeding off for the kitchen. “You have room for dessert, right?”

“If you successfully made Baked Orlesian, I will eat _all_ of it,” she called from the dining room. “Do you need help?”

“No,” he replied as he removed the frozen mold of ice cream from the freezer. “You just wait. It’ll be ready in a few minutes.”

A few minutes quickly turned into fifteen, and by the time he poured the flaming alcohol over the meringue, he couldn’t help but think to himself that Valentine’s Day was the dumbest holiday ever.

At least, that was how he felt until he saw Amallia’s face, lit up brighter than the sun as he brought in the flaming dessert and set it on the table. She waited, watching as the blue flames flickered, then faded away. Without ceremony, she grabbed her forked and cut away the side, bringing the bite to her mouth in a hurry.

“Don’t choke, please, there’s plenty more I can make,” he said as he watched her eat, her hum of approval the greatest reward he could have asked for. Okay, so, maybe Valentine’s Day was worth it. Maybe.

“This is absolutely perfect, Cullen,” she mumbled over a mouth full of ice cream. After swallowing she continued. “I can’t believe you even wanted to _try_ making this, it’s incredibly difficult.”

“Don’t remind me,” he groaned. “Once this batch is gone, I’m never making it again,” he said as he picked up his own fork and dug in, Amallia laughing between bites.

Her laughter returned again after a silent minute devouring the ice cream confection. It took a mere second for her soft giggle to burst into outright cackling, finding something so hilarious she couldn’t put it into words. When he demanded to know what it was that had her in stitches, she leaned in close, bringing her lips to his and licked the corner, passing over his scar.

“You had a little …” she started, licking her lips as they brushed against his again, “… a little bit of the icing on your face.”

“Oh?” he asked, unable to contain his smirk as he dragged a fingertip through the meringue of the dessert remaining on their plate. “Looks like I’ve managed to get more on my finger,” he continued with a feigned pout.

Bright blue eyes flicked down to his finger, then back up to meet his stare as her own coy smirk played upon her lips. Her gaze darkened, smoldering pools endless in their desire, and his breath caught in his chest as he brought her lips to his finger. Maker, the woman could turn a fairly innocent gesture so wickedly sinful, Cullen could hardly resist her, short shallow breaths dragging from his chest in anticipation. The meringue-covered tip of his finger disappeared, then the second joint, and then her lush, pink lips sealed around the base of his finger, tongue swirling around as she _sucked_ it clean.

With a perverted _pop_ , she withdrew his finger from her mouth, leaning back into her chair as she licked her lips.

“Maker’s breath, Mal, you are insatiable,” he muttered.

Her full, open-mouthed laughter slowed Cullen’s racing heart as he joined her. When they quieted again, she said, “I just like teasing you, that’s all. You’re easy to wind up, I’ve learned.”

He opened his mouth to reply, but stopped short when a new song drifted in from the living room. The thought struck him in an instant, reaching out for Amallia’s hand and hauling her up from her chair. She protested for a second until Cullen lead her to the living room, the music reaching her ears, and her special smile, that smile she seemed to reserve for him, pulled her lips tight.

A soft gasp escaped her as he spun her into his arm, holding her much like that night nearly a year ago when he had caught her as she had nearly fallen. Her left hand rested just beneath his shoulder on his arm, and he gently cupped the long, nimble fingers of her right as his other arm wrapped tightly around her waist.

 _My Funny Valentine_ , the soft tenor singing over a drifting piano, muted trumpet, swirling drums, and plodding bass, Cullen swayed in time, leading Amallia back and forth across the open space of the room. Warm, full, whole. For once, for the first time in a lifetime, he felt whole.

Together, they floated along, until Amallia pressed closer, her arm wrapping behind his neck, one hand slipping into his hair and fingertips drawing small circles on his scalp. Her fresh, earthy scent consumed him, the heady aroma washing over him as she touched her cheek to his. The world ceased to exist, floating away as Cullen drowned himself in her, arms wrapping around her from shoulder to hip. Nothing, not a single thing in his entire life, had ever felt so perfect, so _right_. The way it should be.

The song had ended, changed to a different tune by the time he realized they had stopped dancing, standing completely still in one another’s embrace. And then Amallia sighed, a soft moan that Cullen thought he might have imagined, but the slow, languid roll of her hips told him otherwise. Insistent fingers coursed through his hair again, pressing firmer, and she somehow pressed even closer, back arching into him.

“Winding me up, again, pup?” he whispered into her ear.

Amallia sighed once more before speaking. “Maker, I don’t know what happened, but I’m …” she trailed off and Cullen felt the distinct flex of her thighs, eliciting a twitch from the swelling bulge at his groin. Her breathless words and writhing body fanned his arousal to a roaring blaze, white hot and unrestrained. In a flash, Cullen slipped his hands beneath the hem of her skirt, hiking it up to her hips and picking her up, gripping her ass firmly. She gasped as the length of her legs wrapped around his hips and he carried her to the table where the rest of their dessert yet remained, half eaten.

“Here?” she asked, shock coloring her breathless whisper.

He looked to her, finding the same smoldering gaze darkening her eyes, and Cullen smirked his most devious smile as he pulled the plate of dessert closer, dragging his finger through it again and holding it up for her.

“For now.”


End file.
